


Nymphalidae

by dulcetta



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: F/F, Fantasizing, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Obsession, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15072743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dulcetta/pseuds/dulcetta
Summary: Lucille only meant to look but just as her drive to unweave, examine, understand, had led her to pick the wings off butterflies as a child, having Edith laid out before her was too tempting to resist.





	Nymphalidae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peachis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachis/gifts).



From the very first second she’d seen her, luminous and golden, draped in satin and pearls, Lucille had wanted to ruin Edith Cushing.

Birdlike Eunice in her peachy taffetas had faded in contrast, washed out and sepia-toned beside Edith’s radiant light. Lucille couldn’t fault her brother for his diversion, the girl was beautiful. Intelligent, too. Too clever by half, she’d warned Thomas, but he hadn’t listened.

Stupid, simpering Eunice would have been easily dispatched, like lonely old Margaret or plain, pathetic Pamela. Lucille could tell that Edith would be trickier. She was like Enola, in that sense.

Enola, most hated. Beautiful and kind and full of life, full of lies.

Edith was troublesome. Her fascination with the dark and shadowed demimonde drew her to the Sharpe’s like flittering insects to flame. Half bewitched, half repulsed, the girl scarcely seemed to recognise the danger before her. Lucille had tried to warn her. She couldn’t even say for sure why, only that the temptation of Edith’s goodness was such that she knew they’d both be beyond redemption once they crushed it beneath their clay-coated heels.

The girl had not listened and she paid for it with the life of her father. She cried very prettily, Lucille noted, although the noise was distasteful. All that whimpering and gasping. Thomas had cried silently as a child, limpid blue eyes wide and wet.

Lucille couldn’t recall the last time she’d wept.

Home, home at last after the clamour and claustrophobia of America, the reek and shriek of travel. Cumberland was dreary and frozen and beloved, Allerdale folded around her like a worn woolen blanket, scratching at her skin but keeping her safe and warm.

Edith followed like a ray of amber-flecked autumn sunlight. She crept into all corners of the house, stirring up dust and memories.

Such a sensitive child, it was too tempting to prod and poke at her, to make her blush or flinch or cower. Words alone were enough at first but sometimes Lucille longed to slap her hard across the face, to see blood bloom beneath that porcelain complexion. To pinch her, make her yelp like that thrice-damned dog she cooed over. Enola’s dog.

Edith was curious. Nosy, some might say. And excitable. Imaginative. Ghosts, she claimed. An absurd fantasy.

Firethorn berries could cause hallucinations, delirium, somnolence and night terrors.

Lucille did not believe in ghosts, what was dead was dead.

 _I’ll take her to the post office,_ Thomas said. _Let her get some fresh air._ Fresh air indeed. Hours she waited for their return, the storm howling outside, the house creaking and groaning. She knew, she _knew_ what they’d done.

Lucille imagined her, spread out on coarse sheets, pleading for her husband’s touch, Lucille’s ring on her finger. It enraged her. Thomas was not hers to touch. But then Edith never could keep her hands off things that didn’t belong to her. Keys and secrets both.

The tea, the cold, the fall, who could say which ailed her most. It satisfied something deep in Lucille to see Edith powerless, helpless, bed-bound and at her mercy.

With the poison in the porridge there was nothing Edith could do to resist and soon, she slept.

Lucille watched over her. Thomas had retreated to the attic, to his toys and tinkering. Just like before, he left her alone to do as she pleased.

Edith was pale and drawn but still beautiful, like a painting of a saint, martyred.

Lucille leaned in close and breathed in the scent of her hair, brushed her lips over the slope of her jaw, her soft, pale throat. She wanted to sink her teeth in and worry at the meat of her like a wolf but not yet, not yet, and not somewhere that might show even through the gauzy high collars of Edith’s nightgowns.

Those nightgowns, sheer and tantalising. How Lucille longed to shred them. Edith drifted through the house like a wraith, not seeming to feel the cold. The shimmer of fabric, too fine for the English winter, clung to every ridge of bone and curve of flesh. Lit from behind by candles or flame Edith was a tease, virginal in her pure white shift, hair glowing like a halo, whorish in her immodest abandon.

Lucille drew back the coverlet and rubbed the expensive cotton between her fingers. Nothing but the best for such a spoiled little girl.

With a gentle touch, she slowly drew the shift up revealing unblemished skin, not a mark nor a freckle to be seen. Edith was flawless as a new pearl, from the soft swell of her breasts to the gossamer blonde curls between her thighs. Still with sleep she was like a doll, crafted from the finest china and just as breakable.

Lucille’s scars burned beneath the heavy moth-eaten velvet of her gown. To be laced so tightly into her corsets made her feel safe but she envied Edith’s unselfconscious freedom, how she floated untouched and unbound through the world. Invulnerable.

Lucille would make her vulnerable.

She skimmed her fingertips ticklishly up her slender legs, over the arc of her hipbone, the hollow of her ribs.

Lucille only meant to look but just as her drive to unweave, examine, understand, had led her to pick the wings off butterflies as a child, having Edith laid out before her was too tempting to resist.

Carefully, tenderly, Lucille caressed the underside of Edith’s breast. Her skin was as warm and smooth as the satin gowns she favoured, her nipples stiffened in the cool of the room and Lucille, unable to resist, bent over and put her lips to them. She suckled lightly, setting her teeth to the delicate bud. She wanted to consume her, swallow her whole. Lucille pinched and plucked cruelly at each of her nipples until they were swollen and flushed then soothed them with her tongue.

Edith frowned in her slumber, the slightest sound of protest whispered past her lips but she did not wake.

The inner thigh, Lucille thought, for the marking. A bloodbruise on that creamy skin, dark and painful and chafing when the girl walked. She pushed her knees apart and took her in with hungry eyes. Edith was wet, the pink petals of her cunt with its sweet little rosebud glistening with dew. Lucille slid her fingers through the mess and sucked them clean.

Thomas had fucked her first of course, taken her maidenhead and given her pleasure, but Lucille taught him all his tricks and she would fuck her better.

 _Do you ever touch yourself, Edith?_ she wondered, settling more comfortably on the bed. _Ever read something salacious and filthy that stirs you to rock against the seat of your chair, slick beneath your skirts? Ever tuck a feather pillow between your thighs and writhe until you come apart?_  
  
One finger slipped in easily. Edith was hot and tight and silken inside and Lucille wanted to dig her nails in and tear her apart. Slowly though, slowly. She slipped a second finger inside her and curled them, pressing gently, skimming her thumb over the girl’s clitoris. Edith sighed, spreading her legs wider and Lucille smiled viciously.

 _Slut,_ she crooned and bit down on Edith’s thigh to paint the bruise she’d pictured.

Three fingers, her other hand tight around Edith’s throat. She pondered the idea of inviting Thomas into the room, having him fuck the girl while she slept. He could take her from behind, press her into the mattress, pinned to the sheets like a butterfly on card. They could have her together, Lucille wearing one of the toys her brother had sculpted while he fucked her pretty mouth.

Four fingers and Lucille wondered if the girl could take her fist. She was breathing heavily now, eyelashes flickering and lips parted.

_What are you dreaming of, Edith?_

Lucille dipped her back back down and laved her tongue over Edith’s clit. The girl keened, a high, breathy sound and Lucille smiled against her cunt. She twisted her wrist, stretching her wide on her knuckles, and with a shudder and a moan, Edith spilled over into pleasure.

Lucille slid her hand free and admired the mess she’d made, Edith was sore and slick and gaping. Licking the wetness from her lips and digging her thumb into the dark bruise she’d left behind, Lucille decided that perhaps she could keep the girl alive a little longer.

 

 


End file.
